Martyr
by wegotmonobaby
Summary: Sherlock and John are... together. Moriarty can't have that now can he? Work in progress, has now reached M rating.
1. Chapter 1

He woke up suddenly. Nothing as banal as falling off a cliff, no; just fully concious immediately. He knew instinctively that something was wrong. Took stock. He was cold, too cold. Especially around the chest/sternum. Stiffness in limbs/pain in head - back of. Feet numb. Wet chin - saliva. Thick tongue. Summary: held somewhere half dressed after being knocked unconscious/drugged. He was blindfolded, something that smelt of leather. Tried to move his arms, legs; nothing. The latter bound together by something with absolutely no give, the former held out from the shoulders and bound at the... wrists, elbows and armpits, along what felt like wood. Same plastic binding, possibly cable ties, looped together? Impossible to tell. His feet really were very cold. Wood pressed against his bare back, not legs. Trousers intact. Was in fact hanging from his upper body. Waist bound against wood, with rope. Feet just touching the floor, which was dry, and smooth. Slight back pain, not unbearable. No other presence in room; not in immediate danger.

So. 'Who', now 'What' was more or less fulfilled. Only one name sprang to mind, and once that was in place well, 'Why' was practically child's play. Boring. Sherlock worked up enough saliva in his mouth to swallow, darted out his tongue to moisten his lips.

'Jim.'

Silence, for what seemed like forever but wasn't. A crackle of interference from a tannoy system.

'Oh, good! You're awake.'

Effeminate, smug, high. The timbre of Moriarty's voice made Sherlock cringe.

'Why am I hanging from a cross?'

A very brief pause, then.

'You haven't guessed yet? And here was me thinking that you're a clever little thing. Am I being too subtle for you, Sherlock?'

'I think I just... missed it. What point was it you were trying to make, exactly?' Sherlock drawled.

'The point was, is, that martyrs get what they fucking deserve, Sherlock.' Jim bit back, too close to the mic, feedback squealing around the room.

'It was hardly me that played martyr, was it? We both knew as soon as this little game started that we'd end up killing one another. No, I rather think John was the valiant one in all of this. The outsider looking in. The sacrificial lamb, so to speak.'

'Yes yes, oh, isn't John so noble, oh, how did we ever cope before John came along and saved us all with his sure shot and his temper and his loyalty and his big brown eyes.'

'You're behaving like a child. A jealous child. A jealous, spoilt child. And why am I shirtless?'

'You think I'd bind you to a cross fully dressed. Dense! Why would i deprive myself of your milk white skin, when it contrasts so deliciously with those black trousers you squeeze yourself into? And why would I ever, ever be jealous of a silly little nothing like John? Two a penny, dear boy.'

'Pay a lot of attention to my tight black slacks, do you Jimmy-Boy?' Moriarty snorted at this, and Sherlock smiled weakly, knew Jim would see it, would have cameras trained on his face.

'And John. John isn't nothing.' Sounded insincere to Sherlock, even as he thought it, especially as he said it.

'Oh please!' Moriarty snorted, then; 'We both know I know you as I know myself. Better, even.' His voice was intimate now. Soft.

'Well... John would have spared me the courtesy of his presence when he confessed his love. Did, in fact.' Sherlock held his breath after this, and wasn't disappointed.

Moriarty hissed, and a loud bang heralded the mic's ungracious arrival on the floor. It seemed seconds later that Sherlock's vision turned white and painful, and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to cope with the loss of the blindfold.

'Oh, SHERLOCK AND JOHN. You really, really know how to piss a man off Sherlock, you're fucking dangerous. I am going to kill you, we both know it, but I wasn't going to particularly enjoy it. Make me change my mind about that. I beg you.'

Eyes adjusted enough to make out Jim's black stare, at eye level. Shirt opened three buttons from the neck, white, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Black dress trousers, black shoes. High shine. Sherlock smiled.

'You just begged.'

Jim looked at him for a long minute, and then his lips quirked into that same smile.

'Jesus Sherlock. No pun intended. What am I going to do without you?'

Sherlock laughed at this, even as he flexed his tired muscles, even as he moved his neck slightly to try and alleviate some of the ache. Scanned the room quickly, bare apart from a table, but soon lost interest. Moriarty was smiling at him, his face open, relaxed. Sherlock stared at his lips, and Jim licked them, briefly.

'I wasn't trying to be a martyr, Jim. Some people,' and he looked right at Moriarty, then whispered, 'they're just too brilliant to live.'

Jim had to strain to catch that, and was shocked when he did. Flicked his eyes away from Sherlock's, to the floor. Back up, across the detective's bare feet, his eyes like a caress over the clothed legs, lingering at the soft bulge in Sherlock's trousers.

Then up, following the dark trail of hair from Sherlock's waistband, up across his flat white stomach, across his nipples, neck. Up to his eyes, his burning, hungry eyes. Sherlock could only imagine how vulnerable he looked, spread out like this. The thought made his stomach swim, and a slight twinge of arousal shot through him.

Jim smiled once more, then wandered casually over to the table, the only furniture in the room. Picked up a polaroid camera, in his right hand, a glass of water in his left. Sherlock drank greedily of this from a straw, realising the water was drugged just as Moriarty said, gently,

'Boring I know, but you're so much easier to pose when you're asleep.'


	2. Chapter 2

He threw himself on the sofa, working the knot loose on his tie. 'Sherlock!' he called, listened carefully. Nothing. Again. John wasn't worried. It was three days since he'd last seen Sherlock, two since he'd taken a call from the detective, and, oh, around 23 hours since he'd ignored Sherlock's last text. But he didn't care very much because he was, officially, sulking. Four days ago, it had been their six month anniversary. Well, in Johns head. He'd never say anything so sentimental to his flighty... What? Boyfriend? Hardly. Sporadic sexual partner? Lover, then? John snorted to himself at the sudden mental picture of the two of them, hand in hand, strolling through Hyde Park, laughing at nothing, being tender and carefree and oblivious. Maybe not lover, then. But still, he'd expected more from the man. Anything, from the man. At the very least an acknowledgement. Some sign that Sherlock had remembered and John mattered. So yes, sulking. Most definitely sulking.

He sighed, and the soft noise was incredibly loud in the quiet room. Irritated, he took up the remote from the arm of the sofa, and spent the next few minutes channel hopping. Just as he started to really get into Time Team, there was a knock at the door. 'Dr. Watson? Package for you.' John grinned at Mrs Hudson as he opened the door. 'Thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll just take that from you...' and reached immediately for the package. 'Everything ok Dr. Watson?' Mrs. Hudson leaned to the side slightly, keeping the plain brown box out of his reach, before peering around him into the flat. John sighed, his grin turning slightly false. 'And where is Sherlock? Do you know it's days since I saw him last! It's not decent, the amount he sleeps! And the noise he makes with that gun...'

'Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.' John said firmly, leaning towards her and pulling the box free of her grip, giving her a slightly manic smile, before escaping back into his flat. He quashed his slight guilt at being rude. After a ten hour shift the last thing he wanted to do was discuss his absentee sometimes lover venting his frustrations on the wallpaper. He took the box back over to the sofa, dumping it unceremoniously on one end as he edged his way past one of Sherlock's more recent experiments blocking most of the entry to the kitchen.

After he'd brewed himself a pot of tea, he remembered he needed to get his ironing done for the next week. Growling softly and muttering obscenities to himself, he dumped the tea on the table and went to fetch his clothes. Sherlock called the clothes he wore to work his 'suits of respectability'. "They'd never believe that hours before you are sat in your expensive leather chair, cupping their cheeks, gazing thoughtfully at their tonsils, you were scrabbling around in the filth of the sewers chasing a madman intent on poisoning half of London." Then the detective had laughed, grabbed a handful of John's suit, and made him very much not respectable. His sexual liaisons with Sherlock were rare, and the memories of them something John cherished. The doctor smiled as he reminisced scene by scene, lost in thought. He sighed again as he caught sight of his now cold tea, and wrestled the ironing board upright before wandering off to find the extension cable for the iron.

Which meant it was a considerable amount of time later that he remembered the package. Curiosity piqued, he reached for it just as his phone went. He wandered over to Sherlock's favourite chair, where his coat was draped, and rummaged in the pocket. His stomach clenched with relief, immediately assuming Sherlock was calling, but his brow wrinkled in confusion when he saw the _'Witheld'_ caller ID.

'Hello?'  
>Silence.<br>'Hello? Who is this? Who's calling? Sherlock?'  
>Laughter, then the muffling of the mouthpiece, and quietly 'he thinks it's you'.<br>Then;  
>'Open your package, dear boy. I haven't got all night.'<br>'Who is this? Hello? Hello!'  
>Dial tone.<p>

Panicked, John dropped his mobile onto the floor and tore at the plain paper wrapping as nausea clawed it's way up his spine. Jim Moriarty. The box seemed innocuous enough, but John wasn't stupid. He placed it carefully on the table next to the cold tea and scrabbled on the floor for his phone. They'd barely survived Moriarty the first time, and he wasn't taking any chances now.

Lestrade got there in twenty minutes, which was a feat close to a miracle on a Friday night in Central London. He'd bought an off duty member of the bomb squad, and the necessary equipment for scanning without blowing things up, though John was pretty sure that whatever was inside the box wasn't likely to explode. Jim didn't do repeats. Hopefully, he did mistakes. Fingerprints, fibres, fully written out locations, anything like that would be entirely welcome. They hadn't come anywhere near finding the criminal mastermind, and it had been at least eight months since the pool. John zoned out as the bomb expert and Lestrade took over, lost in thought.

Occasionally Sherlock mentioned the man, but never in depth, knowing John hated hearing so much as his name. It was a sore point between them. Sherlock didn't, _couldn't_ understand John's anger, and John couldn't bring himself to explain how much it hurt to not be the one that made Sherlock's whole being throb with energy like it did when the man talked about Jim. His eyes lit up, his gestures became wild, he glowed and John hated it. And now the stupid bastard was winning again. Stuck in John's head. And all he could think was; why me and not Sherlock? Why contact me?

'John? It's clean. Well, clean of explosives. Let's open her up, shall we?' The DI handed John a pair of latex gloves, snapping his own on. John nodded, wiped his sweaty palms on the thighs of his trousers, before forcing the gloves over his hands. Trembling, he reached for the stanley knife Lestrade had brought with him. He very carefully slit along the sellotape holding the two flaps together, before cutting the edges. Putting down the knife, he lifted the flaps apart gingerly, stepping back as far as his arm's reach would allow. Both men jumped as the bomb squad man's bag scraped off the wall as he made his exit. 'Sorry. I'll just let myself out.'

'Thanks Mark, see you later,' Lestrade called, before turning back to John. 'Well?'

John's face was a mask. Wordlessly, he handed a sheet of A4 white paper to Lestrade, before reaching into the box again. There was one word printed in the centre of the paper in capital letters- **MARTYR**. 'Is this it? I called Mark in for this? His wife's just had a bloody baby...'

Lestrade's tirade faded out as John looked into the box. He couldn't hear anything but the rushing of his blood, his own heartbeat. The paper wasn't the only thing in there. There was a series of photographs. Five, seven, ten. Ten polaroids. Of Sherlock. Dressed. Sitting. Lying down. Shoeless. Shirtless. Tied up, gagged, blindfolded. Strung on a cross. Trouserless. Naked. Bitten. Marked. He was unconscious in all of them. John managed to thrust the photographs at Lestrade moments before he fell to his knees and threw up.

And now it was much, much later. Two hours shy of Sunday. They were in Lestrade's office, with strong coffee. Surrounded by paperwork. Results of the fingerprinting, the DNA lifting-nothing. Obviously, nothing. John had called Mycroft, and the man was on his way over. They were pouring over the photographs, trying to find detail that might lead to a location. John still couldn't look at the last two, no matter how much Lestrade cajoled him. Sherlock naked and bound to a cross. Sherlock marked with bites, three of them. Still unconscious. So vulnerable. The photos still made John's empty stomach lurch, and he'd lost his temper, telling Lestrade he could 'find his own fucking location' in the two polaroids. The men had been silent since the outburst, looking for answers that just weren't there. John's frustration reached fever pitch and he slammed away from the desk, knocking his chair over, kicking it across the room. 'John!' Lestrade stood, moving behind the doctor, and John buried his face in his hands, biting back a retort. Lestrade reached out tentatively, reassured when John allowed his touch on his shoulder. 'It'll be ok John. We'll find him. He'll be ok.' John didn't respond.

When Mycroft arrived, it was in a flurry of well dressed agents and government arrogance. John was incredibly thankful that Sherlock's brother held such a sway, and allowed himself a moment of hope. The other Holmes was so utterly competent, so calm, so what John needed to see, as he felt as though his world had fallen apart. He tried to ignore the look that flicked across Mycroft's normally stoic face when Lestrade handed him the bagged polaroids. Tried to will away the nausea churning with too much coffee and stomach acid. Tried to keep his face neutral as the agents Mycroft had brought conversed amongst themselves about Moriarty. 'No chance,' 'like trying to hold smoke,' 'six years and we're no closer,' 'genius, he's a fucking genius,' 'covers his tracks like the Ripper.' Mycroft silenced them with a look, but the damage was done. John made it to the toilet before he threw up again, but only just.

When he eventually came out of the bathroom stall on shaking legs, he was greeted by Mycroft. The man handed him a glass of water and a packet of two ginger biscuits. John thanked him quietly, swilling his mouth out and spitting, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. 'Ginger will settle your stomach.' Mycroft leaned against the sink next to him, back to the mirrors. 'Yeah, thanks,' John replied, turning and leaning alongside him. He opened the biscuits and nibbled on the edge of one, gratified when his stomach didn't roll as much as he expected. 'He will be ok. Moriarty will hardly want to harm him.' John looked at Mycroft, who was staring intently at the doors of the stalls opposite. 'And why exactly are you so sure he won't be harmed?' John bit out, angry at Mycrofts matter of fact tone.

'I merely meant that whilst Moriarty is most definitely a very dangerous man, he won't cause any harm to my brother. Not this time, anyway. Not like last time. You see, Moriarty knows well Sherlock has this strange... obsession, with him now. It's different to before. Sherlock's not his main concern. Moriarty is trying to provoke you, Dr. Watson, not harm Sherlock. He wants to see how you'll react. This is, once more, a game to him, and sadly, you and Sherlock are his players.' Mycroft turned to John, and smiled thinly.

John shook his head angrily, laughed humourlessly. 'So he's kidnapped him and knocked him unconscious and photographed him so they can see how angry I get, how worried I am? Sherlock is not obsessed with Jim fucking Moriarty, and I don't understand how you can stand there, telling me they're, oh, probably just having a lovely chat! It's all a big game! He has him tied to a cross, Mycroft. Naked. He tried to kill him, us both, eight months ago. Or had you forgotten? You're wrong. You're so utterly wrong about this. He barely mentions him, Moriarty. He's not fucking obsessed with him.' John pushed past Mycroft, missing the pitying, knowing look on the older mans face completely.

John seethed, pacing the police station corridor, breathing rapid and shallow. Hating Mycroft for bringing to light what he tried so hard to ignore. Two geniuses together. John Watson playing second best to a psychopath. He swallowed roughly, took deep, calming breaths. Mycroft was wrong.

Sherlock had chosen John and Mycroft was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's hearing was the first thing that came back, just as it was the last thing he lost. A fire, logs spitting and cracking. Not what he expected at all. The slow swim back to consciousness was scarily reminiscent of his hedonistic junkie days, and he shuddered. As much as he sometimes missed being high, craved it, even, he was glad to be clean. To be back in control. He slowly became aware of a low humming noise, in the background. The noise rose in pitch until it was almost a scream, battering at his over sensitive hearing. Panic set in, and his breathing sped up. His palms grew sweaty, and his heart began to race, until he realised what the noise reminded him of. And obviously was. A kettle boiling. Soft footsteps, the slight creak of a door, and the noise ended. The same soft footfalls, bare feet on a wooden floor, then a sigh, and a different creak. Leather. The rustle of paper. Sherlock gave in to temptation and opened his eyes.

He was in someone's home. The room he was in was low lit, long, with dark wooden floors and light walls, though he couldn't make out the colour. He was lying full length on a butter soft pale brown leather sofa, with a quilt thrown over his legs. The cover of the quilt was black, with large white circles. He was completely unbound, and still shirtless, though he could feel that his legs were clothed under the soft comforter. (He wondered briefly where his shirt was. It was his favourite, purple silk.) Bookshelves lined the two walls he could see without moving his head, from floor to ceiling. There was a large open fire opposite him, bracketed by an extravagant marble fireplace, flanked by more bookshelves. A low, long wooden table in front of the sofa had a couple of issues of Private Eye piled under a black leather satchel, closed. At the far end of the table was a chair that could seat two, at least, in the same brown as Sherlock's makeshift bed. And there could be found Sherlock's captor. His legs hanging over one of the arms, spread out comfortably on the spacious seat. Shirtless. Wearing casual, low slung pyjama bottoms, from a very expensive boutique no doubt, though Sherlock couldn't make out a designer's name. Reading, totally ignoring him. Sherlock allowed himself a handful of moments to admire Moriarty's skin, warmed by the lighting, the fire. The man was pale, so pale. Flat, toned stomach. Hairless, bar the trail leading to... Well. Enough of that. Smiling very slightly, he continued to scan the room.

It was beautiful. Smelt like old books and coffee. Past Moriarty's chair was a piano, backed against a wall, and next to it a door. Leading to the kitchen? Sherlock assumed there was another door to the room behind his head, but didn't want to alert Moriarty to his consciousness, so ignored the urge to turn and check. He knew he should be worried. Trapped here, against his will. Half naked. But for the life of him, the detective couldn't muster up the energy to care. It didn't seem important now, like the consequences of all of this belonged to someone else. He looked at the ceiling briefly, admiring the crystal chandelier, though he'd make sure he told Jim it was vulgar if the man asked. He smiled again, wider this time, ready, and flicked his eyes back to Jim. Was utterly unsurprised to meet the man's dark gaze.

'Welcome home, darling!' Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and didn't reply. 'Do you like what I've done with the place?' Moriarty drew himself upright, closing his book and tossing it lightly onto the table. Stared at the detective, half smile on his face, before rising gracefully and wandering past the piano, out of the room. 'Tea?' he shouted, and Sherlock cleared his throat and called back 'please.'

Now was his chance.

He pulled himself upright, hissing slightly as the muscles in his thighs complained, and swiveled. His arms were killing him, as was his head, which was probably a result of being bound for so long. Trying to ignore the pains, he lowered his feet to the floor. Which was warm. Underfloor heating. The extravagant fool. He stood, shakily, and made his way to the other door, which was where he'd guessed, holding on to the sofa to aid his balance. He regretted the fact that he was shirtless and shoeless, and then wondered where on earth his shoes were. £175 italian leather. Hyper aware of any noise he made above the crackling of the fire, conscious of every step he took closer to his escape, he crept over to the door. Hand on the door knob, he paused. Allowed himself one fleeting moment of regret at leaving Moriarty. Just one. Which evaporated the second he felt something sharp in the centre of his back, and a cool dry hand wrenched his arm up behind his back, before forcing him flat against the door. He was blindingly aware of skin on skin, where Moriarty's waist pressed into the small of his back. 'Leaving so soon, Sherlock?'

And that had been two hours ago. Moriarty had man-handled him back to the sofa, thrown him down, and perched himself on the table, thighs bracketing Sherlock's. 'Really, Sherlock. That's twice, two times, _deux occassions _in as many days you've disappointed me. And after I took the effort to bring you home! Mother always did tell me to stop collecting waifs and strays. Although you fit the former, rather than the latter. Anyway, if you try that again, I'll have John killed. Ok? Now. Milk, sugar?' And Sherlock had calmly replied, 'Jim. You kidnapped me from my flat. That's hardly me acting like a stray. I was in my home. Maybe if my actions continue to disappoint you you might like to try lowering your expectations? Milk, yes. And one sugar.' The detective was marveling at how difficult he found it to not stare openly at Jim's smooth, defined chest. These twinges of arousal were certainly unusual, and definitely unwelcome. Moriarty smirked at him, before dis-tangling himself and leaving the room. Sherlock was pleased with the man's response, almost certain he'd scored a point, and certain he'd hidden his interest. It was only when he replayed his own response that he realised he'd completely ignored the threat against John. And now, hours later, they'd fallen into the easy sparring they both seemed to encourage in each other.

Moriarty was back with another cup of tea. His mug was in the shape of a house, whilst Sherlock's proclaimed him to be the 'Best Daddy in the World.'

The detective examined the mug closely. 'Have you been robbing houses again? Little quaint, isn't it?' Jim placed his little house down on a black square coaster, before flopping back into the massive chair. 'It was a present from a lover. He used to call me "Daddy" when we fucked. When I fucked him, rather.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and blew delicately across the surface of his tea. 'How boring.' Moriarty laughed, trailing his fingers across the leather on the arm of the chair. 'Boring? I hardly think so. Some of the things he let me do to him were as far from boring as it's possible to get. I can be... quite persuasive. Oh, but I keep forgetting! You're asexual. "Married to your work." That, Sherlock, that, is boring.' Sherlock shook his head, sipped from his mug. 'John and I have sex. Though he calls it "making love". He's really rather thoughtful, in bed. And out of it. Makes me food quite a lot. Reminds me about sleeping. Quite a domestic set up we've got going on.' Moriarty looked at him. Pointedly. 'Really. How fascinating.' The man stood, walking around the table, and took the mug from Sherlock's fingers, sitting down before dumping it on the table. 'That's not on a coaster.' Jim growled, picking the mug up again and slamming it down on one of the dark squares, slopping lukewarm tea over the untreated wood. 'That's probably going to stain.'

'I can live with a few marks Sherlock. I'm just wondering if John can? From what I hear he didn't appreciate my little gift.'

'Gift? What are you talking about? Is this something to do with that camera?' Moriarty nodded, studying Sherlock's face carefully. 'I sent him a few photos of you. Hickeys at your age! Ridiculous.' Sherlock's eyes widened almost comically, and Moriarty laughed, a soft, breathless sound that made Sherlock's stomach clench. 'Did you give them to me? Or did you get one of your lackeys to mark my skin?' Moriarty moved closer, slid along the leather until he had Sherlock pressed into the corner, against the arm of the sofa. 'Do you really need me to answer that?' he whispered, leaning in. He placed a chaste, closed mouthed kiss to a point on Sherlock's neck just below his right ear, then another on the left, in the hollow of his collar bone, then down to just below his right nipple, where he lingered slightly, hot breath making Sherlock's skin moist. Sherlock was trying hard to control his breathing, want spiralling in his chest. 'Beautiful marks, Sherlock. The contrast on your skin is breathtaking.' Kissed him again, underneath his jaw.

'Do you think John thinks something is going on?' Sherlock jerked like he'd been slapped, pushing Jim away roughly. The mention of John whilst Jim's lips warmed his skin made Sherlock queasy. 'This is not going to happen. I can't do that to John.'

'But you want to.' It wasn't a question. Moriarty slid away, and got up, left the room. Sherlock took the brief reprieve to pull himself together. He felt ridiculous, aroused and guilty. John's face, his eyes. He wondered if this was how the normal people felt, when they'd cheated. Though he hadn't technically. He hadn't actually touched him, Jim. Wanting to made him feel as bad as if he had! He stopped his internal debate as Moriarty came back in. 'Lie on you your front. I stabbed you a bit before.' Sherlock managed a false laugh, awkward all of a sudden. He slid across the leather and onto his front after an impatient wave from Moriarty. He felt the other man's full weight against his legs, then cold cream on his back. 'Savlon. Heals minor wounds.' 'Right.' Moriarty's hands slid from the wound, tracing the muscle in Sherlock's back. Resting against the waistband of his trousers, before drifting back up, following the line of his spine. Trailing the very tips of his fingers up the side of Sherlock's neck, pressing gently against the lovebite. Until his fingers were resting on the detective's scalp. He curled his fingers into the dark hair, then yanked back, hard. Sherlock cried out, and Jim leaned right in, pressed his mouth against his ear. 'I want this. You are not his. Do you understand?' Sherlock was quiet for a beat. Then;

'Your chandelier is so fucking vulgar.'

Moriarty's laugh was deafening, that close.


	4. Chapter 4

John felt like shit. He'd spent the night at Mycroft's house, though mansion was a more accurate description of the sprawling estate he'd glanced at last night as he'd stumbled, half blind with sleep, from the limo. He had no idea where they were, only that they were miles away from London. He'd been asleep for the whole journey, and didn't really care enough to ask anybody. Anywhere was a marked improvement from Lestrade's office.

After he'd left Mycroft in the toilet, after he'd thrown his guts up, he'd paced angrily in the corridor outside, half waiting for Mycroft to come out, half dreading seeing the man's knowing face. He'd given up after a bit, slunk back into Lestrade's office, sat in silence whilst Mycroft's team argued with Lestrade's officers about what they should do, what leads they needed to investigate. John hadn't contributed. He knew they had nothing. When Mycroft had suggested taking him home hours later, he'd just nodded, too exhausted to argue. He hadn't really realised that Mycroft meant his home. Sherlock's brother had woken him gently when they'd arrived, and his manner so reflected Sherlock's that for a second John's stomach had lurched in hope, before he remembered.

They'd spent an uncomfortable couple of hours drinking whisky in an unbelievably stylish living room, complete with original object d'art and wingback chairs. There had been a lot of not speaking, before John had finally given in and asked to go to bed. His bedroom, one of many guest rooms, was easily twice as big as Sherlock's and his flat, on the third floor of the stately home. The bed was massive. A four poster, 'you should be sleeping in this with your lover not alone' reminder. He sighed miserably, stripped naked and crawled under the duvet. The bed was far too comfortable, and the silence in the room was absolute. He couldn't hear a single thing. No banging, singing, cursing. Nobody playing the violin, or shouting obscenities at the Jeremy Kyle repeat at 2.30am. He missed Sherlock so much it was like a physical ache. He hoped that fucking madman died a horrible, violent death. That was his last thought as exhaustion claimed him for the second time that night.

And now he was sat at a pristine dining table whilst Mycroft's many servants fussed around him, laying out enough breakfast food for an army. John was hungry, even if it didn't seem like Mycroft was. Traitorously hungry, like the Holmes was traitorously bloody busy. Mycroft sat at the head of the table, reading the Times, with every other morning newspaper, local and national, stacked by type and size, in front of him. He wondered how the man could think of working, just as he wondered how he could think of eating. Wondered if Moriarty was feeding Sherlock. An image came, unbidden, of the sick bastard feeding Sherlock. Keeping him tied to that cross, watching his mouth as he ate, fucking smirking. John sat down heavily, leaned his head in his hands, tried to breathe deeply and evenly. He couldn't cope with this. 'I'm going back to the flat. He might have tried to call.' Mycroft looked at him briefly, before going back to his reading. 'John, there's no reason why he would call the flat. You have your phone with you, and I can almost guarantee you will have been under constant surveillance. It's part of the game, isn't it.' Knowing that Mycroft was right didn't make John feel any better. He wished the man wasn't so smug about it, but restrained himself from yelling this at the older Holmes. 'Well, I can see you're busy, so either way I'll just go.' Mycroft looked up at this, raised an eyebrow. 'I'm looking for anything that could pertain to my brother, Dr. Watson. Problem?' John cursed inwardly, this not having occurred to him at all. 'Sorry, I'm. I'm sorry, Mycroft.' The man didn't reply, just went back to his reading, which made John's irritation shoot sky high. It was just his way. Just his way. John sat back in the huge dining chair, his leg twitching, and picked half heartedly at some strawberries in front of him. 'We'll call on Lestrade in about an hour. It's too early to expect the man to be in yet, when I know both our teams worked late into the night.' 'On what?' John thought maliciously, snorting. 'I don't know what on, John, but they obviously don't like feeling impotent either.' John didn't reply, and tried hard to ignore the pang of familiarity that that comment had brought forth. Sherlock used to read his mind too.

They sat together in relative silence for what seemed like an awfully long time, before there was a soft knock on the door of the dining room. 'Come!' Mycroft called, without lifting his head. John turned as a generic staff member came in with a bundle of letters and a plainly wrapped brown package. He felt his heart rate pick up as the mail was left, and the member of staff dismissed with the wave of Mycroft's elegant fingers. 'Mycroft. That box. That's how the photographs were delivered. It's Jim.' Mycroft looked up, dropped his paper, and slipped out a sleek black mobile phone from the pocket of his suit jacket in one fluid movement. 'Yes. It's happened sooner than I thought. Now.' Snapping the phone closed, he addressed John. 'They're on their way. Do not touch anything. Who bought it in?' 'Erm, staff member number three. I mean. Brown hair, mid height.' 'Marcus. I'll send for him immediately.' John couldn't believe Mycroft could differentiate between his staff, and was absolutely flabbergasted when they heard the soft chime of the front door bell, thinking that there was no way in hell the detective inspector had arrived that quickly. Mycroft left to answer it himself, expecting Lestrade himself no doubt, and came back with a bottle of semi-skimmed and a scowl. John couldn't help himself, he laughed, tried to smother it, and ended up snorting, half hysterical, half amused. Mycroft shot him a glare, before he too succumbed to the ridiculousness of the situation and laughed too. It did nothing to dispel the tension, though. Both men sat in silence, flinching at every noise, looking at the box as though it held the secrets of the universe. When the door eventually chimed again, John was ready to explode with nerves. Had a second of not wanting to know what was in the bloody box at all, before common sense assaulted him once again. Their greetings to Lestrade and the man he'd bought with him were stilted, and the detective inspector got to work straight away.

Both John and Mycroft stood well back as the now familiar bomb scan took place, then the fingerprinting. Several sets showed up under the dark powder, and they watched enraptured as the prints were painstakingly lifted and recorded. 'Probably just the-' 'Mailman, yes.' John smiled blankly as Mycroft cut him off, not blaming the man for being impatient. The tension in the room was palpable. Finally, the box was readied to be opened. Lestrade did the honours this time, slitting the package tape and opening one flap, then the other. 'It's a shirt,' he called, 'a purple shirt.' After a minute scan of the shirt took place, revealing nothing, no hairs, fibers, marks, the shirt was lifted out carefully in Lestrade's latex grip. The shirt had been meticulously folded and pressed, the edges razor sharp, the collar erect and straight. Lestrade shook it gently, and it fell out in full.

A collective gasp rang around the room. There was a hole in the deep purple silk, exactly over the heart. It looked as though someone had grabbed the fabric, and just hacked at it. 'Is... Is there anything else in the box?' John asked, hoarsely. 'Someone's written 'MINE' in capitals in the bottom, in permanent marker I reckon.' Lestrade said, not meeting John's eyes. There was silence in the room, until John cleared his throat. 'Mycroft. Take me back to my flat, please.' Mycroft's voice sounded a million miles away as he replied. 'Of course.'

The men left Lestrade to sort out the mess, with a brief threat regarding further information and the speed as to which it should be passed on. The journey back to London was silent. John tried on more than one occasion to talk about his fears with Mycroft, to reassure himself, but the other Holmes remained stoic. Knowing that people coped with shock in different ways didn't make John feel any better at all. He wondered if Sherlock was ok. If he'd been harmed. Where the fuck he was being kept. A part of his mind, that traitorous part that made his guts churn and his palms sweat, wondered how much Sherlock was enjoying himself. How much they'd fucked. Where they'd fucked. If Sherlock had even thought of him at all. If he wanted to be rescued. His treacherous brain finally stopped as Mycroft broke the silence. 'I still believe my brother is unharmed, Dr. Watson. I don't think Moriarty wants to see the back of him any time soon.' Watson snorted, shook his head. Continued to watch the scenery slip by, his own reflection a ghost painted onto the trees. 'Something amusing?' John rested his sweaty forehead against the frigid glass, huffed a breath onto the window. 'He's probably having the time of his life Mycroft. He's probably loving it.' Mycroft didn't reply for a while, considering this. Then, softly, 'probably.' It was exactly what John didn't want to hear.

They got back to the flat, and after John unlocked the front door with shaking fingers, both men went straight upstairs, unhindered by Mrs. Hudson. John inhaled sharply as the smell of Sherlock assaulted his senses, then gagged slightly. The flat smelt awful. He hoped it was bad food, not some experiment involving flesh that had mouldered for too long. He went upstairs, leaving Mycroft in the doorway, and went straight for his gun. It was where he always kept it, in his bedside draw. Whilst he spent a lot of nights in Sherlock's bed, sleeping, or breathing in the detective's smell whilst he experimented downstairs, or trying to put another floor between himself and the screech of the violin, he still kept his own room. A pretense at not needing Holmes. A lie, a massive, walk-in lie. Something was off though, with his gun. It has been fired, hadn't been cleaned. Which was ridiculous, John always cleaned his gun, always. He placed it carefully on the table next to the lamp, before dropping to his knees to check under the bed. His bullets were stored in a tin with a combination lock, the code of which only he knew. The lock was open. Panicking, he wrenched the tin out, scattering bullets across the floor. 'Fuck!' he yelled, scrambling for them, gathering up what he thought was all of them, two from under the bed, the rest under the bedside table, near his feet. He was five short. He hadn't lost five. And then, like a wave crashing on the shore, he remembered Mrs Hudson. Something about noise, and guns. 'John? What is it?' Mycroft asked, appearing in the door. 'I think Mrs Hudson might know something.'

It took them nearly half an hour to glean the information from the woman. She'd just taken her morning soother, and didn't recall the gun incident at all, at first. John was ready to commit murder, but Mycroft kept at it, patient, calm. Reassuring. Then she remembered. 'Red car, he had. Of course, I don't know if he was anything to do with Sherlock. All I know is, there was all that fuss, shouting and the like, and I half wondered if you and him had had a barney. Well, anyway, I didn't see Sherlock, or anyone else, but I did see this flash red car pull away, all screeching it was. What kind of car? Oh, I don't know, Dr. Watson, a posh one. Like these politicians have.' Three quarters of an hour and a phone book sized catalogue of car type slides later, they knew it was a Bentley. A red Bentley S2. 'Oh, well I know exactly what time it was, because I had a look at the clock so I knew what time to shout at Sherlock. It was quarter to four in the morning. I don't know where you were Dr. Watson, or I'd have shouted at you too!' John knew. He'd been out with work, in a casino. He'd come home twenty minutes later. He'd just missed him. Been out to drown his sorrows because Sherlock forgot their anniversary. Thinking only of himself whilst his lover was kidnapped by the ying to his yang.

Mycroft thanked Mrs Hudson, and took John by the forearm. Pulled him into the flat and closed the door, before leaning on it heavily, forehead pressed to the wood. This was the most emotion he'd ever seen from the older Holmes, he thought vaguely, trying to calm himself. The guilt churned in his stomach, and he wondered why he hadn't been sick yet. Oh yeah, you needed food for real vomit. Mycroft turned around, and cleared his throat. 'I'm sorry you had to see that, John. I'm afraid the situation caught up with me, is all. But, this is good. We have a lead. A time, and a car. Hours of CCTV footage to trail through, yes, but at least it's a start.' John nodded, though he wasn't very hopeful. What chances did they have, against a genius?


	5. Chapter 5

As Sherlock woke up, he experienced several seconds of disorientation. He was warm, body heat warm, and this could only mean John, and a rare moment of tenderness. He smiled, inhaled deeply, and remembered immediately. Jerking back, he cracked his head on a wall, wincing and just about managing to smother his exclamation of pain. He was, quite obviously, in Moriarty's bed. Dressed, barely, in black boxer briefs and a plain v neck t-shirt that most definitely was not his. The sheets of the bed were dark blue, cotton, nothing special. He didn't have a pillow, because he'd obviously been using the psychopath's arm to rest his head. Moriarty slept on undisturbed, on both pillows, which Sherlock found difficult to believe, but was proven to be quite true when insults about the man's stature went unanswered. He had to use the toilet, but was trapped between the slumbering body and the wall. Leaning back on a soft sigh, he took in the room. Open fire, unlit but fully banked, bookcases made from mahogany, a huge sheepskin rug, cream. Two doors, one closed, one open which led to an ensuite. Dark brown wooden shutters with beige walls. Judging by the amount of light seeping around the edges of the stained wood, it was 4.35am. Roughly. Sherlock wasn't used to the feeling of doing something against his will, and this, laying in this bed with this man at this time with this pressure on his bladder, well. It definitely fell into the 'against will' category. He had decided to label this whole business as one big 'against his will' episode, and the fact that this was a lie made something unfamiliar run up his spine. Guilt? Surely not? Thinking about the night before made his stomach clench in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant, but provided him with the necessary inclination to get up.

He climbed over Moriarty, and made his way to the bathroom. It was a super modern wet room, marble and chrome and clean, and only served to make Sherlock crave his cracked suite in 221b. Getting lost in his reflection whilst washing his hands made him wonder if he was ill, coming down with some terribly boring disease, the common cold, food poisoning. He used mirrors to think, usually. Today, this morning, this mirror appeared to be an enemy. Reflecting his sins. How utterly dramatic, and totally pathetic. Snorting in derision, he made his way as quietly as he could manage back over to the bed, climbing back to his spot, which was still warm. As he rubbed his feet together to warm them up slightly from the bathroom floor, laying on his back to contemplate the softly lit ceiling, Moriarty broke the silence.

'Done feeling sorry for John yet?'

'Shut up.'

'No, really. Having you sulk in my bed does nothing for my ego.'

'I am not sulking.'

'Yes you are.'

'You think I care?'

'About this? No. About John? Oh yessssssss.'

Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling, silent, and Jim turned around, onto his side, watching him with his dark eyes. Sherlock's gaze intensified minutely and Jim smiled, pleased with the reaction.

'Say it.'

'Fuck off.'

'Now now. Language.'

Sherlock turned to him, meeting his look, and groaned. Audibly. Jim smirked, before pulling on Sherlock's arm, turning the detective onto his side.

'Say it.'

Sherlock's breathing increased, and his mouth fell open as his tongue darted out, moistening his lower lip.

'You mean nothing to me.'

'Yes Sherlock. Yes.' Moriaty hissed, grabbing the t-shirt and yanking Sherlock's mouth to his. It wasn't a kiss. It was a pitched battle. Sherlock managed to get enough control to push the man away, and Moriarty fell back into the mattress with a laugh. Panting, the detective plastered himself against the wall, and sneered.

'Don't you think it's about time you give this up? It's getting boring.' Moriarty looked at him, and raised one eyebrow.

'You don't LOOK bored, Sherlock. You look... frantic. Red, red lips. Last night was like an appetizer. Before your conscience came out to play. Now that, was boring.'

'You didn't complain at the time.'

'Only because I got a better offer. Obviously not quite as, sexy as the predicament I find myself in now, but satisfying enough.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, then opened them abruptly as last night attacked him in technicolour.

'Isn't it time you moved on, found a new toy?' Moriarty slid across the cotton until his bare chest pressed against Sherlock's, pinning him to the wall. Sherlock's hands came up and grabbed at Moriarty's shoulders, pressing him away as much as he could with absolutely no leverage. Moriarty curled his hands into the neck of the shirt, forcing them to maintain eye contact.

'Why would I do that, Sherlock? When I have you? I. Want. To. Destroy. You.' Each word followed by a soft kiss of punctuation to Sherlock's neck. Moriarty's own brand of seduction. 'Last night, you begged. You begged me Sherlock Holmes. I didn't even get to open your fucking trousers, before you came. Embarrassed yourself. Because you want this. Don't deny it. And want it so much more, because you feeeeeeeeeeeel now. John, has made you feel. Which in itself is ironic because you aren't with John, are you? He made you feel and turned you loose. Idiot. He's so ordinary. So, so ordinary.'

'Don't pretend you're so superior, Jim. I don't remember you having that much stamina, when it came down to it. 'Oh god, Sherlock. Oh god. Oh god.' I thought you were going to ask for my hand at one point.'

'Ha. Too easy.'

'Ha.'

Both men were silent, for a beat. 'Don't you want to know where I went?'

'No.'

'I've been calling John, by the way. The whole time you've been here. And texting. I've had you for much, much longer than he thinks.'

'Oh.'

'Cut your purple shirt up and everything.'

'Right.'

'What is this, my monosyllabic punishment?'

'Yes.'

Moriarty leaned back slightly to stop the small space between them becoming uncomfortably hot.

'Sherloc-'

His phone trilled from across the room, and he sighed loudly, before unfurling his hand from the sweaty cotton at Sherlock's neck, where his palms had practically branded the detective's skin.

Sherlock watched the muscle in Moriarty's back move as he barked orders into the phone. Raised his hand to follow the line of Jim's spine in the air, then dropped it abruptly. He was shaking. Jim snapped into the phone, then ended the call, dropping his head to his chest momentarily before turning round with a false, brittle grin.

'Duty calls!'

Sherlock woke again hours later. After Moriarty had left, he'd stayed in bed. Staring into space, he hadn't even got up to try the door. Damning evidence, he thought, with an almost wry smile. He'd fallen asleep, and now it was morning proper. Someone had left him a note, which detailed what he was allowed to do, where he was allowed to go, and what he was allowed to touch. It was typed, and printed, but someone had added 'yourself' under the touch heading. He smiled, and shut his eyes, and allowed himself to remember.

Kissing, and biting, and then he'd been pushed off the sofa, landed on his back. Moriarty was on him immediately, grinding into him, and Sherlock couldn't breathe, this was, it wasn't like this, and his blood sang, and Jim pinned his arms above his head and ravished his mouth, traced his jaw with his clever, clever tongue, sucking and biting his lips, and Sherlock responded like he had been waiting for this moment for his entire life. Holding his hands with one hand, Moriarty traced the detective's ribs, his skin, down to the trail of hair leading to his dick, and Sherlock had whimpered, and thrust upwards, grinding himself forcefully against Moriarty's delicious weight.

'Sherlock,' Moriarty had panted, 'Sherlock.' And Sherlock groaned like he was dying.

When Jim's hand touched his cock, after he'd forced it into his pants, after he'd teased and crowed and groaned into his body, he'd come almost immediately. After a few seconds of stunned laughter, Sherlock had risen up and flipped Moriarty, shutting him up with his tongue and teeth, and proceeded to grind and rub and bite and lick the man to incoherence.

Later, Moriarty had tried again, and Sherlock had fought him off, refused, sulked. Was told to go to bed. Was asleep when Jim joined him.

But the slightly bitter ending didn't stop Sherlock using the memory. The guilt came back as soon as his hand stopped, wet with his come. He heard Jim laughing at him in his head, and cringed.


	6. Chapter 6

He was sat in a ridiculously comfortable chair, which certainly wasn't helping things. Mycroft's help provided a constant stream of coffee, the quality of which John commented on every time a fresh cup was produced. He'd sip, and then smile, and then remark, 'bloody hell Mycroft, this is certainly better than the coffee we have at home.' Mycroft smiled the same thin smile every time, but didn't look at him. John wondered if he'd seen Pulp Fiction every time he said it, and didn't ask, every time he thought it. They were several hours into the watching of CCTV from most of the businesses in Central London, trying to plot the path of Moriarty's flash bastard of a car. John's will to live had slipped away hours ago. His worry for Sherlock hadn't abated, but he was only human, unlike the elder Holmes. The man hadn't stopped to eat, or drink, only pausing momentarily to bark orders into his phone.

'The government carries on regardless of personal tragedy', he'd remarked, before shooting John a look and correcting himself, changing 'tragedy' to 'unpleasantness.' John was beginning to wonder why the man bothered. Who was he reassuring?

Flickering cars ran and merged as john stared at the TV screen. He stifled a yawn, glancing up at Mycroft's unblinking stare, then back at the screen. His eye widened, and he hit pause, then rewind, then pause again. At last, John had spotted the car. Moriarty was a genius, and obviously well versed in the placement of most of the sodding cameras in Central London, but even he couldn't miss them all.

'Mango Tree, Hobart Place. He missed one! Time stamp says about an hour after Mrs Hudson heard them fighting, it's got to be him, right?' John pointed at the screen at a fuzzy but unmistakable long red car.

'Right. I'll see what I can do.'

Mycroft left the room and John allowed himself a moment of hope. Just a moment, though. Because London was massive. But then, so was England. They could be anywhere. And what they knew, he knew Moriarty would know. Did he want them to know? Had he missed some massive clue? What was Sherlock doing right now? Did he even want to know? John's worry was changing.

Into jealousy.

Sherlock had been with Moriarty for _so long. _Why? The man had escaped from worse. Had arranged and orchestrated scenarios far more complicated, surely? John knew the answer of course, why Sherlock was still missing. The man didn't want to leave, didn't want to be found. Had finally got his wish. Trapped indefinitely with someone your intellect matched! Who you found unbelievably appealing, who flattered you as they insulted you? Who you learnt from as much as you taught them? Who was so utterly dark compared to your dalliances with the light? John was jealous all right. And understood the appeal, understood Sherlock's obsession. Because it mirrored his own with Sherlock himself. And understanding this made him feel much, much worse.

'John, we think we've found somewhere where they could be. It's a basement flat in Chelsea Gardens, a friend of a colleague said he saw a Bentley, a 'big red one', parked there two nights ago, and that it hasn't moved once. He lives on the next street, a car enthusiast it seems. The house belongs to a Mr James Napoleon Crimps. I don't know if this name is at all linked to Moriarty but it is worth our time, surely?'

John already had his coat on, and was striding from the room. Mycroft smiled briefly, and followed.

The flat was absolutely beautiful. The walls were light grey, the floors carpeted so thickly it was like dragging your feet through molasses. There were books everywhere, an original Matisse took up one wall, an Escher the other. John was literally speechless. From the outside it had looked like any other London property. From the inside, it was money personified, but done so very tastefully. The police had been very careful, he was perversely glad to note. They'd had to wait outside for so long before they received the 'clear' and were allowed investigate for themselves. The fruits of a life of organising crime for other people were plentiful and ripe, it seemed. Once the lavishness of the property had worn off, John's disappointment took hold fully. Sherlock wasn't here. He slumped onto a leather chair easily the size of their settee at home, and cradled his head in his hands. Mycroft was elsewhere in the flat, and John was, again, wondering why he was bothering. The whole thing was so fucking pointless. He was on the verge of tears. Standing suddenly, angrily, he stormed through the flat, looking for the toilet, determined to hide himself before he broke down again in front of Mycroft. Slamming the door shut, he found himself in a super-modern bathroom, complete with claw footed bath and floor length mirrors, marble floors and gilded taps.

Snarling at the pristine room, John pushed down the toilet seat and made to sit down.

'MYCROFT!' John bellowed, unlocking the door and yanking it open. 'MYCROFT, GET IN HERE, THE BATHROOM!'

'What is it John? My god man, calm down!'

'You fucking calm down! Look! On the toilet seat!'

'CLOSE BUT NO CIGAR' was written in permanent marker on a sheet of blotting paper, sellotaped to the top of the toilet seat. There was a smiley face drawn under the message, and a photograph of Sherlock. He wasn't looking at the camera, wasn't looking at anything. He had his eyes closed and his head thrown back, and was laughing. Shirtless, with a cup of tea in his hand, and a quilt covering his legs, he looked like a happy house guest, not a captive. John's fears confirmed, it didn't take a genius to figure out the double meaning to Moriarty's latest message. John had come close, yeah, but he'd never be good enough. Never be enough. He looked at Mycroft, who looked back, sadly.

'I think it might be best to call off the search, John. It doesn't look as though my brother wants to be found.'

'We-' John coughed, cleared his throat of the massive lump, tried again. 'We haven't got the whole picture Mycroft. We can't just leave him with that psychopath, whatever this looks like. We need to find him. He could be, I don't know, drugged, anything in this photo! Please Mycroft, we have to keep trying.'

Mycroft sighed, and shook his head. 'Really John, I can't keep wasting resources if all he's doing is having a bit of a fling-'

'Please, Mycroft. Please.'

'Another week John, and then that's it. One more week.'

'Ok, thank you. Fine, thank you.'

They went over the flat with a fine toothed comb, searching through everything. Every book, every item of clothing, all pockets, drawers, the cistern, behind paintings, under floorboards. Nothing. There wasn't a single shred of anything, not a fingerprint, no DNA. No dribble on the pillows, no hairs in the plug, no fingerprints on the toothbrush. The place was like a show home, but was obviously lived in. Mycroft had a theory about Moriarty having burnt off his fingerprints, and John agreed. Though how he'd managed to not leave any DNA was a mystery to both men. He was so very, very thorough.

Hours later, Mycroft took John home, to his home. They stopped off at 221b on the way, so John could pick up a change of clothes, and smell deeply at Sherlock's coat. He half wanted to take it with him, to sleep with it, but wouldn't allow himself to in case Mycroft saw. He was already behaving in far too pathetic a manner. They arrived at Mycroft's place, and John went straight to his room to change into jogging bottoms and a t-shirt. Decided to make himself as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances. When he came back down, Mycroft was still wearing his suit, but was smiling, and holding out a Chinese take away menu. The unrealistic nature of the situation made John laugh, and he was absolutely delighted when Mycroft blushed.

'It's ok Mycroft, I know it's not a date.' He joked, and wished he hadn't as Mycroft's smile disappeared, and he dropped the flyer and left the room. John raised his eyebrows at the older man's reaction, and picked the flyer up, perched awkwardly on the edge of a chair. Being uncomfortable in someone else's house seemed to be the new theme of John's life. Mycroft came back a short time later, smile back in place.

'I apologise, John. I saw, this.' He produced a plainly wrapped brown box, and John's breathing sped up. 'it was on the table behind you. It's a porcelain figure I ordered for mummy, that's all. Nothing to do with anything else. But I did wonder. Now, shall we?' He gestured to the menu, awkwardness forgotten.

After they'd eaten, Mycroft produced a bottle of whisky, and they drank until they were drunk. Drunk, and laughing. John couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this, not recently, and Mycroft had a myriad of stories about both famous and political figures that were unbelievably shocking, each one more hilarious than the last.

'It turned out that the turkey was actually up his arse!' Mycroft wheezed with laughter, and John was actually crying by this time, laughing hopelessly. They were sat on the sofa, clutching each other as they laughed, when Mycroft seemed to have a sobering thought, his laughter dying as his face grew serious.

'Do you do this with my brother, John?' John calmed down somewhat, his laughter turning into a smile as he grew lost in thought.

'Get drunk? Or laugh?'

'Laugh. He, I. We never laugh, like this. Never.'

'We laugh, yes. Even get drunk, sometimes. He has the sharpest, most acerbic wit I've ever encountered. He can be a right bastard when he's had a drink though. And when he's sober obviously. He's even a bastard to me when I dream about him. Ha, maybe my subconscious just hates me.'

'Yes. Maybe. He will come back, you know. He will.'

John's smile faded altogether.

'Yes, he will. But he won't ever be satisfied, will he.'

There was silence. Glancing over, John half smiled. Mycroft had passed out.

'Why would he ever be satisfied with me,' he mused, sliding down the settee to lie on Mycroft. His warmth was supremely comforting, and John fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock glanced across the table at his dinner partner, then quickly away, before the other man could make eye contact. The soft glow of the candlelight from its solid silver holder made Morairty's skin glow, which in turn made Sherlock scowl and flick a crumb from the bread rolls they'd just eaten across the otherwise immaculate linen tablecloth. Jim was dressed to kill, in Sherlock's favourite of all his Westwood suits, the very dark blue/black one, without a tie for once. He had three, _three_ of his buttons unfastened at his neck, leaving the smooth white column free for Sherlock's perusal, taking full advantage of the detective's appalling obsession with his neck. Sherlock had no idea what they were doing in this ridiculous restaurant, and was quite honestly confused.

He'd fallen asleep again after his shameful memory wank, and when he woke up, he was groggy and angry, and his head hurt from too much sleep. He'd wandered into the kitchen and made himself some toast, bored. It was late afternoon now, and he'd been alone for at least eight hours. This was the longest Moriarty had ever been away, and Sherlock wasn't worried. He was irritated. He went for a shower for something to do, and delighted in using as much of the bastard's expensive shampoo as he possibly could. When he came out of the wet room three quarters of an hour later, two tone skin and slick hair, he stopped short at the foot of his, their, _his_ bed. Moriarty had left him a black Tom Ford suit on the quilt, which, when tried on, was a perfect fit. Cufflinks, tie pin, the works. Sherlock finished dressing himself, dried his hair, fussed with himself in the mirror for an age. Then sat, and waited. He hated waiting for anything. Much preferred to be on the cusp of late than on time and bored, or god forbid, early. He knew that Jim knew this, even though he'd never said anything of the kind, and never would. He cursed himself for becoming some kind of, _woman_, until a knock at the door had him across the room in two strides.

'Sir. Your car is here.' Sherlock noted absently that the door was unlocked, probably had been all day, as he followed the blonde driver down the stairs. The hallway looked like something out of 'Rich Maniacs Monthly,' all carpets and cameras and paintings and side tables. He thought about making a run for it, as he left the warmth of the lobby and made his way over to the limousine. But it was only a thought. The driver held the door open for him, and he thanked him, before taking a seat gracefully in the soft leather.

'Hello, darling.' Jim's voice was as low and as soft as Sherlock had ever heard it, and he had to stop himself from shuddering.

'What the f-mphhhh!' his angry tirade was cut off as the smaller man jumped him, pressing him hard into the door of the car and kissing the breath out of him. Sherlock opened his mouth to yell and Jim took advantage, sliding his tongue past his lips and into Sherlock's mouth. His yell turned into a moan as he surged up against Moriarty, grabbing handfuls of his lapels to keep the man as close as possible.

'You missed me,' Morairty's panted as he broke away, keeping his face inches away from Sherlock's, making sure they were still breathing the same air.

'Fuck you!' Sherlock snarled, using the door to brace himself and push Moriarty away across the slick leather. The other man laughed out loud, sliding further away and reaching for a mini fridge, pulling out a bottle of Grolsch.

'I did try that last night, Sherlock, but it didn't really get me anywhere did it? Anyone would think you didn't WANT me to fuck your arse. I'm really good you know. Really, reallllllly good.'

Sherlock said nothing, trying to calm his breathing and stop panting like a fucking virgin in the corner of the car. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to snap. Moriarty took a long pull at his lager, tonguing the bottle, and Sherlock looked away, cheeks heating, before he laughed.

'You're insane.'

'You love it.'

They'd arrived at the restaurant soon after, and Moriarty had taken his hand and led him into the place like they were on a date. Like they were lovers, fingers entwined. People were looking at them, and Sherlock wondered why.

'They're staring at us because we are beautiful, Sherlock. I can only imagine what we look like together. Should probably be on the cover of some catalogue for alternate lifestyles. Who wouldn't want us to adopt their child, hmmm? Or be their priest, or teach their kids, or god, I'm boring myself, shall we sit down?'

Sherlock sat, and they ate bread, and stared at each other.

'So what's this about, Jim? Why are we out?'

'I'm not out, dear boy. Not, officially. I mean, I'm not going to limit myself to one sex. That wouldn't be very sporting of me, would it? Everyone has to have a chance.'

'Yes, harhar, very droll, I mean here. Not in the apartment.'

Jim regarded him for a moment, and then sighed.

'I'm letting you go.'

Sherlock didn't bother to contain his shock.

'You're letting me go? What, why? Are you serious? What the hell is this?'

'This, Sherlock, is the last supper. I'm letting you go so you can make up your mind. John, lovely lovely John, or me. Plus if you carry on teasing me the way you know you are I'll probably have to rape you and I imagine you'd be unbearable after that. And just so you know, you are being terribly inane tonight. I definitely made the right decision.'

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. They stared at each other again, until the waitress arrived with their starters. Sherlock found, to his abject horror, that he wasn't very hungry anymore. Jim ate delicately, pulling his fork from his mouth slowly, licking his lips, savouring his food and never once breaking eye contact. Sherlock wondered in an absent, out of body manner how the man was getting any food on his fork at all without looking at his plate. He felt… odd. Detached. Sick. He stood up abruptly, and the chair made a harsh sound against the marble.

'Are you going to cause a scene, my pet?' Moriarty asked, eyes black in the candle light. Sherlock sat down abruptly, and leaned in. Took the fork from Jim, and took both of his hands across the table.

'No. I'm going to go back to John. Tell me; was this all a massive ploy to get me to submit to you? Is this your equivalent of a fake trial? Or do you really want me to go back to John? I bet he'll be so pleased to see me, Jim, I bet he'll rip my clothes off. My immaculate Tom fucking Ford suit, in shreds, on his bedroom floor. 'Where have you been, oh god Sherlock, I missed you, missed this, you smell so good, I love it when you beg me, oh beg for it Sherlock, beg.'

The detective's voice was barely above a whisper, but Moriarty heard every word above the gentle hum of the restaurant. His grip tightened exponentially in Sherlock's hands, and he yanked the man forward into the table, holding him there.

'I changed my mind. I do do that, a lot. Are you _fuck_ going anywhere.' Moriarty hissed, face a mask of anger. Sherlock laughed, bitterly, the sound obscenely loud in the hush.

'That just kills you, doesn't it? John and I? Would you like a blow by blow account? The first time, the last time? Most of the time I fuck him but sometimes Jim, sometimes I just want to be taken, you know? I just want to lie down and let him have me. The last time we fucked, before you took me away, he bent me over the kitchen table. Sent one of my experiments flying, but I didn't care. He had his hands in my hair, twisting, pulling me, arching my back, and it fucking hurt. And you're letting me go. Letting me choose? You're really not the man I thought you were.'

Sherlock stood up then, anger clouding his vision. He stormed to the toilet, not ready to leave the safety of the restaurant, having no money, no phone, powerless and trapped. He slammed into a cubicle, ignoring the bathroom attendant's polite query as to how he was feeling this evening. He heard the door open, then silence.

'Did you not just hear me, Holmes? I. Changed. My. Mind.' Moriarty's tone was like ice. 'You and fucking John. I'll show you how a man fucks, Sherlock Holmes. You won't remember who the fuck John Watson is when I'm done with you.'

'I do hope you dismissed our audience before you proclaimed that, Jim. I'm very famous now don't you know.'

'Ha. Aren't you a wit.'

'Yes. Obviously.'

There was a dull thump on the door of Sherlock's stall.

'Sherlock. I am so sick of chasing you. ' Jim's words were muffled, as if his face was pressed against the dark wood.

There was silence for a very long time. Then a sharp click. Jim leaned down and opened the door to the stall, pushed it right back. Sherlock had put the toilet seat down, and was sat on it, shredding toilet paper onto the immaculately carpeted floor. Jim dropped to his knees and crawled forward on them until he was between Sherlock's legs, and reached up for the detective's face. He pulled him down, and kissed him. Gently. Tenderly. And Sherlock gave up. He slid off the toilet, deepening the kiss, all but sitting in the other man's lap. Moriarty groaned, pulling away and burying his face in Sherlock's neck.

'Did you choose?'

'Yes. You.'

'Finally. Fucking finally.'

They left the toilet quickly, past the attendant who was standing guard outside. Moriarty pushed a fifty into his hand without stopping, dragging Sherlock through the restaurant, pausing only to snap 'Waitress. Bill.' Whilst Jim settled up, Sherlock lounged against the wall, pulling at his tie. He let the pin fall to the floor, worked the cufflinks free and dropped those too. He bound the tie around one wrist, opened his top button and all the buttons on his jacket. When Moriarty turned around, Sherlock heard his breath hitch, and smirked. He walked idly towards the door, and Moriarty caught him up and took his hand in a punishing grip, a parody of how they'd entered the restaurant less than an hour before.

When they were safely ensconced in the limousine, Sherlock let out a breath. Moriarty laughed, and Sherlock found himself joining in, though he had no idea why. His choice was made. As if it could be any other way. He slid across the leather and kissed Jim again, and again, and again.

It was two minutes later that the world shifted sideways. There was an ear splitting bang, and Sherlock was thrown from the seat into the window opposite him. He lost consciousness immediately. Coming round slowly, the detective tried not to move as he assessed his injuries. After a couple of minutes of having no idea how badly he was hurt, he sat up. His front was covered in blood, his lap full of glass. He prodded at his chest gently and found that most of the blood was from a gash across his chest, just under his right nipple. His nose was bleeding, he thought, and one of his teeth felt loose, the front left. He was pretty sure his index finger of his right hand was broken, but not positive. His suit was ruined. This, despite everything, made him smile, and then he winced as more blood ran into his mouth. His lip was spilt. Marvellous.

Moriarty was out cold. Sherlock felt panic crawl up his spine. The accident had obviously caused a scene, and Moriarty would be captured, and Mycroft would have him 'seen to', and then this, would end.

'Jim. Jim, wake up, Jim!' Sherlock yelled, and tried to crawl across the floor to the seat Jim was sprawled across.

'Jim, wake up, please. Please Jim, now, wake up now!' As he crawled, blood ran from his wound, and he began to feel woozy. Fighting himself, determined to stay awake, he made it to the seat just as the passenger door was prised open. He looked into the earnest face of the fireman, and roared, tried to wrench the door closed again. The fireman pulled back, white hot pain raced from Sherlock's chest, and he slumped onto the floor, defeated.

He came round in a hospital bed. Someone was holding his hand.

John.


End file.
